


Aurora Borealis

by Occula



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 10:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12252327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occula/pseuds/Occula
Summary: Edge has an epiphany, followed by doubts and fears. Bono won't let it alone.





	1. A sound

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I ever wrote, back in the ff.net days. As such, I see its flaws clearly and love it anyway. I learned a lot from it. I can see now that it owes a debt to Leelah's "Sleight of Hand." Many thanks to my first real-life beta, Eileen, who was on board immediately and with whom I've gone to a couple of U2 shows since. Shoutout to J for butterscotch, and to Stephen King, Shakespeare, Pink Floyd, Nick Drake, and Bob Marley for stuff I stole from them.

Everyone else fell neatly into a category. Man, woman. Fan, family, press. Straight, gay. Bold, shy, passionate, bland.

Bono was simply Bono.

Their relationship, too, had always been like nothing else in Edge's life. It defied classification. They were coworkers and friends, mates and brothers. _My other self, the rest of me._ Their relationship simply _was_ , unquestioned, a focal point, at the center of his life. All these years.

So he was comfortable with Bono’s touchy-feely nature. Bono was different; he wasn’t limited by culture or gender. He was elemental, larger than life. They’d worked, lived, created, been passionate together all their adult lives, and before. So without thought Edge accepted an occasional firm kiss and hardly noticed himself slipping an arm about Bono’s waist for a moment here or Bono’s resting a hand on his knee while making a conversational point there.

But now.

Now.

Alone in his hotel room before bed, he'd become aware of an odd, melancholy feeling. He was missing ... something. Not the same feeling as missing Morleigh or his kids. It was different, too, from that empty rootlessness, that craving for place that sometimes crept over you on the road. That, for Edge, was usually a minor, passing mood anyway. Edge loved the road.

But there was some void. Something lacking.

A little later, in the shower, he'd begun to masturbate, which was neither unusual nor habitual. He groped through his small stock of current fantasies, the common, private fare everyone jerks off to. He was tied up, and a very young woman was doing tantalizing things to him. Having a quick, cheap, dirty fuck standing up in an alley. Maybe just someone here with him, now. Just an anonymous body in the shower with him, here in a hotel in a strange city. Behind him. Someone to lift this sudden loneliness. Edge kept his eyes closed. _Press your body against mine._ He stroked slowly and firmly, his other hand running over his torso. _It's so good to be in your arms. Rub my chest, like that, yes, jack me off. Faster. Hold me tighter. You feel so good. Hold me; I'm so lonesome. Only you — oh, I'm getting close — only your arms around me, hold me up, I've wanted you so long — Bono —_

And he was over the brink, coming, gasping harshly. Muscular, imaginary arms wrapped tightly around his waist, a warm body, something rigid pressed against him. Finishing, he heard himself, softly, wailing aloud.

A beautiful, forlorn sound.


	2. A stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge has a realization or two.

For hours he sat on the foot of his bed with a towel about his waist. He wasn't one to concern himself with gay and straight. Who cares. And, as stated, Bono was just Bono. But this –

Edge was shaken. This – Bono would hate him. Despise him. It would destroy everything. His relationship with Morleigh; Bono's marriage. His work, his band. It would hurt and alienate Bono, his blood, his self. And that would shatter Edge as well. It was like an earthquake that would break the components of his life into rubble. Terrifying.

How long he sat with his head in his hands he didn't know. Finally he dressed and left. It had rained, and he walked through wet, dark, deserted streets, smoking. Trying to gather himself, get some kind of hold on himself before he saw Bono again. The sky lightened. He stopped for cigarettes. A sturdy orange tabby followed him, and he squatted to pet it absently for a while, then moved on. He began to see pedestrians and traffic. People hurrying to work, coffees, newspapers, umbrellas, phones, strangers.

There were two questions really, Edge was thinking in his categorical way. One of definition and one of reaction. Was he making something of nothing? He'd no desire to be raped, for instance, but that was something he'd occasionally thought of while masturbating or while having sex. But he was a gentle man and didn't want such fantasies to come true. They were only idle thoughts.

_So what does it mean that I ... thought of Bono? How significant is that, and what should I do about it? How much weight to give a fleeting image that happened to pop into my head at an inopportune moment?_

Something in him rose up in revolt at that. _This is not a fleeting image. It's the one desire I never realized was there, at the center of my soul all these years. It didn't just happen to pop into my mind at random. It is Truth._

It was something deep, integral, in his bones. It made sense as the next thing, a progression to another level. Growth, rebirth, like emerging from a chrysalis. Exhilarating, free, like flying. It felt joyous, like stumbling across your purpose in life. Pure. Like being a rock star. Like seeing God. Like falling in love.

He was walking down the street with his head tilted back, grinning, a light in his eyes, looking at nothing, his face to the midmorning sky. When had he felt so clean, so reborn? He was laughing aloud. _I'm completely mad. I'm mad for Bono. I feel so fucking young._

A fine mist had been falling, and Edge, in hat and leather jacket, hadn't noticed. But suddenly hard drops began to pelt the sidewalk around him, and he realized that the air had cooled and the sky was dark. Pedestrians ducked into nearby stores for cover. He stood undecided for another moment as rivulets began to stream from the brim of his hat. Then it began to pour in earnest and he hurried into a bookstore close at hand, still grinning like a fool.

In the vestibule he shook himself off and shook the water from his hat. A young woman who clearly didn't recognize him brushed drops from her cropped blond head and grinned back at him because they were both wet and cheerful. Another woman stopped shaking off her umbrella and gaped at him. As dry as he was going to get, he tipped his hat to her impishly. "Ma'am," he said, and entered the store, pleased to find it local and personable, and with a coffee shop. He bought an armful of books and sat by a window with his coffee, enjoying the contrast between the cozy, light shop and the dark street being pounded by rain centimeters away.

He'd bought two copies of a small volume of Shakespeare's sonnets, and now inscribed one, "For my poet, Love, Reg." He opened his own copy at random. "Thou, the master mistress of my passion," he whispered. "Mine be thy love." He read the whole poem again. Was the poet saying contentedly that the other man was meant to love women, and so the poet wanted his friendship only? Or was he saying sadly that he would always love the other man, albeit hopelessly? Edge gazed at the rain for a while, thinking about it. The young woman at the coffee counter and a couple at another table stared at him, then tried not to, then looked again.

He flipped through the volume again. "Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided loves are one," he read. "Two loves I have of comfort and despair ... The better angel is a man right fair." _Funny,_ _I seem to have completely missed the homoeroticism when I read the sonnets years ago,_ he thought. _Now it seems so obvious. Am I more sophisticated, or is it my ... situation?_ He was smiling again, and the coffee woman, who had recognized him at once, felt her thighs go loose and weak. He was an ordinarily handsome man, but that look – dreamy, joyful, _alive_ – transformed him into something breathtaking. She sighed and turned resolutely to grinding beans.

The harsh burring sound jolted Edge back to the present. He glanced at the text again. _Shakespeare knew a desperate, fruitless love. And I thought these were rather boring when I was a kid. Who knew._

He had sobered abruptly. A desperate, fruitless love. We two must be twain. What had he been thinking, how could he have been so giddy? He had answered only his first question – how meaningful had his incident in the shower been? – and forgotten to consider the second – what would its impact be, what should he do about it?

The first impulse of his heart was to get to Bono's hotel room as soon as he could and bare his soul. "I think I'm falling in love with you. Already fallen." And then what? Did he want to fuck his best friend, his brother? He shook his head. _I don't know. Yes. No. Anything. I just want him_, _whatever he'll give me. I can't imagine doing ... that ... but ... I don't know._

But what would be the more likely result of such a confession? Bono would recoil from him. He'd be shocked. The idea would repel him. _He would reject me, and he'd never think of me the same again. He'd think of it every time we shared a mic, every time one of us stripped backstage, each time we touched. We couldn't be the band under those circumstances. I'd destroy that, too, if I approached him. Take away the thing we all live for. Could I do that? How selfish am I?_

_Right._

He emptied his cup, decisively.

_So I won't._

_I'll not tell him. I'll not ask him._

In his chest a weight, like grief, began to settle. _I'll never have it. I have to have it, to live._ A stone sat behind his breastbone.

_Nevertheless. This stone is mine. I'll hold it instead of hurling it. I can still love him. I can keep this, I can cherish it. Just put it away in my heart, never let it out. Bad enough to be a destroyer at heart, but worst of all to act on it. I'll not be a destroyer._

If all you have is a stone, a stone can be a precious thing.

Edge's mouth was drawn tight. That way his lips didn't tremble. He dug his battered little idea notebook from a coat pocket and jotted down a few phrases. _You are elemental, you are fundamental, water in my hand, the taste of bread. I am deception, I am your destruction, something something –_

His cell rang.

The couple, who had given up trying to decide whether he was himself or whether he only looked like him, glanced up as he dug out his phone. "Edge," he said and immediately wished he hadn't as the couple reacted. (It is him! I told you. Who's he talking to? Is it Bono?)

It was Bono.

"The rest of us are having lunch, love, where are you?"

That voice. Lord. Him. Pure seduction. Edge marshaled his composure. "I was out for a walk and the rain trapped me at a bookseller's."

"All right, look, I'll come pick you up and we can do something. Museum? Shopping? Or we could just get pissed. We're free until tomorrow."

Edge laughed. It hurt his throat. "Getting pissed sounds good."

"Are you all right?"

"Of course, why?"

"You sound off," Bono said. "Sad."

"I'm just tired. I had trouble sleeping." _What with sitting around naked all night thinking about you, and all._ He gave Bono the address and rang off, then sat looking at the phone for a few seconds, aware of his heartbeat, his blood tingling like a teenager's. He tucked the phone and notebook away and scrubbed his face in his hands. Hard.

Then he waited. Trying to look as though he'd slept and eaten since the previous afternoon. Trying to look as though his life had not changed overnight, that he hadn't spent the morning wrestling angels. He thought he'd done a good job of it until he was in the taxi and Bono was studying him. Edge tried to look normal, which was likely a mistake.

"Really, are you all right? You do look tired. And mournful."

"Mournful?" Edge smiled. "Just pleasantly melancholy. Here I am, a stranger in a strange land, in the rain, reading poetry ... very Byronic. Here, that reminds me." He handed Bono his copy of the sonnets.

"Reg!" Bono was pleased and immediately flipped toward the back of the volume. "Here it is! The loveliest lines in English: Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments ... " He read the beautiful lines solemnly to Edge. "... I never writ, nor no man ever loved. Ahhh ... " Bono closed his eyes and threw his head back theatrically. "That's so unspeakably lovely."

Edge nodded, then, realizing Bono couldn't hear it, gave the other man's hand a brief squeeze. "Lovely," he agreed. _There, I touched him and I didn't combust. I can do this._


	3. Seventh-inning stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bono's all, 'sup, Edge?

Over the next two weeks, Edge took to carrying the sonnets around with him. They fit neatly into a pocket and he was looking at them all the time anyway. He vowed to give up masturbation so he wouldn't think of Bono while he did it. He bought a pair of leather trousers like Bono had repeatedly suggested he wear and told himself it was because he was tired of being the last guitarist on earth without them, not because he wanted Bono's gaze upon him. He spent an hour one night standing naked before the mirror in his room, seeing every flaw and condemning himself as unwantable. _You are a fool,_ he told himself. _Don't be an idiot. Bono could never want you. It’s the furthest thing from his mind. No one could ever want you. You skinny, hideous, bald old man. You bloody fucking stupid, stupid man._ He stared into the bleak grief of his own eyes for a long time.

He devoured Bono with his eyes onstage as best he could. He took to sitting a seat away from him at meals and meetings. Easier if their legs didn't touch. He wrote the bones of a song about ragged need and despair. One night when Bono kissed him on the cheekbone during a gig he grinned and blushed furiously instead of rolling his eyes. He forgot to eat five times and forgot to sleep twice. He congratulated himself on getting over his silly little crush so well.

A day off, then two shows in a row. Another day off, a TV taping, a travel day, another city, then a carefully rehearsed a cappella version of the United States' national anthem at a baseball game. They were re-applauded by people around them when they were shown their seats; they shook a lot of hands. Edge had adopted the home team's baseball cap for the occasion. He was the only one who knew more than a very little about baseball, and he rather liked it.

He managed to duck between Larry and Adam as they were seated. He was looking at the playing field and missed the significant look the two exchanged behind his head. _Told you,_ Adam mouthed, and jerked his head. Larry got up, saying, "Trade places with me, Edge – we need to make rhythm section small talk, here." Edge looked up at him. "Come on – you know Bono'll drive me mad. Let me sit by Adam, and you can answer the questions."

Somehow Bono had already acquired a couple of beers, and he stuck one into Edge's hand as he sat down again. "I _love_ baseball," he said. "Now, is it left field from the batsman's perspective, or when you're standing out in the playing field? I can never remember that."

Edge briefly considered burying his face in his hands but smiled and shook his head in mock dismay instead. Bono always asked a lot of questions about baseball, and Edge knew just enough to answer half of them. He didn't know how heavily baseball relied on toxic chemicals for the grass, whether the elaborate system of hand signals was related to the sign language of the deaf, or the source of the wood for the bats, but he did know that the first base could be taken on a dropped third strike and that a base runner had to wait until a hit ball was caught before advancing from his base. To Edge, good pitching and exciting base running were the heart and essence of the game, not the big hitting most fans loved, and he tried to impart that to Bono.

Something about a live baseball game made Edge feel free and relaxed – easy, like an American. He felt some of the knot of tension he'd been carrying in his breastbone loosen, just a little. Just for a while.

Bono conserved his voice by applauding with his hands and speaking his "yeah"s rather than yelling them, but Edge relaxed more than he had in a fortnight and cheered a good bunt – explaining to Bono again the concept of sacrificing a batsman to advance a base runner, which Bono referred to as “creating a diversion” – and got to his feet to see an exciting play at the home base.

After they'd stood and sung what Bono insisted on calling The Baseball Song, Adam and Larry went off together, and that's when Bono grabbed Edge's upper arm and hissed, "Don't think I don't know."

Edge jumped and went cold at the core. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I don't know what it is, but it's there," Bono said. "You're carrying a sorrow. I see it in your eyes. Something terribly wrong, yet you haven't told me." He was close to Edge's ear. "Sometimes I even think you're avoiding me. But your playing – it's been brilliant. Whatever it is, you're harnessing it. But it's still consuming you. You've even lost weight. You must tell me. You must."

Edge felt himself turn white and red. Bono's hand seared his arm. He could smell the faint evergreen scent that always hung about the singer, and beer. Those magnificent eyes drilled his, brimming with concern and with love. Edge cleared a lump in his throat, but his voice still came out husky and low. "A baseball game really is not the place," he said, and managed to wrench his eyes away from Bono's and gulp down the last third of his beer. "I've – I've just been thinking – I had a kind of moment of self-discovery recently, where I found some things about myself that I didn't much care for. I'm sorry I haven't talked to you about it. But really, _now_? Can't we talk about it later?"

"You'll tell me tonight?" Bono pressed.

"I will." _Jesus, what am I going to tell him._

"Right, then." Bono released him and signaled a vendor for more drinks. "I'll hold you to it."

_Christ. Jesus Christ, help me get through this conversation._


	4. A balcony scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a conversation, followed by an awkward POV shift.

Later, on Bono's little hotel balcony, they lay back in Adirondack chairs with more beers in a bucket between them. Bono tried fruitlessly to see stars, while Edge kept his eyes closed. He'd been trying to work out what to say, how to present it, all evening, but he still wasn't entirely sure how it was going to come out. Bono let him mull it over, waiting for Edge to speak first.

"B, you've broken your wedding vows in the past," he finally said/asked.

Bono kept his face turned to the sky, affording Edge a view of his exquisite jawline. "You know I have."

"Of course you know that I did, too, when we were young," Edge said. "I was able to keep thinking of myself as a good person, a moral man, by compartmentalizing it. I made it just about sex, so I could pretend it wasn't cheating. No emotional attachments, y'know?"

Bono looked at him, the corners of his mouth quirked upward. "I did the opposite," he said quietly. "I could only bring myself to do it if I forced it to be an emotional experience. I made it ... integrated, so it wasn't just some dirty little thing."

Edge had to laugh. "Figures, doesn't it."

"Yeah."

They drank.

"But I’ve never had what I'd consider an affair," Edge continued. "I had a bit of sex, but I never _saw_ anyone else. Never anything ongoing. Does that make sense? I kept it brief and meaningless. No entanglements. That's how I – those were my demarcations."

Bono nodded.

So far, so good. Edge sighed and tipped his beer up and up, trying to gather himself for the next part.

"Well. A couple of weeks ago I suddenly became aware ... that I do want to have a meaningful affair. With someone specific, I mean. I ... sorry, I'm not explaining this very well. I've fallen for someone. The desire isn't new, just my awareness of it. I realized I was right on the verge of, was actually capable of, just throwing away my relationship and the marriage of the other person as well. Just blithely embarking on the destruction of so much I hold dear. When I realized it – realized how selfish I am – I understood that I can't do it. Mustn't. That I must deny myself this thing, this _person_ , when I've just begun to realize that I want it more badly than I can recall desiring anything. All these things – it struck me two blows at once. The realization that I have within myself that capacity for immorality and destruction, and the realization that I have to ... euthanize those desires, you see. So I can still live with myself."

_There. Calm down. That came out all right, didn't it? My god, what a situation. To tell him I want him and can never have him, without letting him know he's the one I want._ Edge's vision blurred with unshed tears.

"So you found someone who transcends your capacity to compartmentalize," Bono said quietly. "And you've been denying yourself this pleasure, trying to kill your feelings, but you're also tearing yourself apart for even desiring it at all. Oh, Edge, I'm so sorry." Bono looked over at him again. His eyes shone in the darkness. "Who is she? Someone you see a lot of. A staff member?"

"B, I'm sorry. I just can't tell you," Edge said, gently. He had hardly said "I can't tell you, Bono," before in his life. "Maybe some day, but not now. The person doesn't know about it, and I'm not going to tell them. As I said, they're married; I want to protect them. And they have no idea. I – can't – can't imagine they could even be interested in me. Not in a thousand years. They'd be horrified, if they knew. I'm such a fool." Edge felt a tear slip from one eye, then the other. "I'm sorry," he whispered raggedly. "Bono, I can't bear this."

He wiped his cheeks roughly and then Bono was in front of him, crouching in front of his chair and pulling him forward onto his knees and into an off-balance embrace. In Bono's arms. A dozen conflicting emotions strove in Edge's chest as Bono clasped him. "Edge, love, don't be so alone," Bono said. "You're breaking your heart and I didn't even know. Oh, god, I'm sorry."

Edge's chest hitched. For a moment he simply went limp and rested his head on Bono's broad shoulder. There, where he belonged. Then for a moment he hugged Bono back, hard. _Here is the fierce love I can’t give you. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could hold you forever._ Then he disentangled and sat back, laughing a short shaky laugh. He swiped his face again and looked into beloved, compassionate blue eyes. "Thank you," he said. Croaked, actually. He released a huge sigh. "Thanks for making me tell you. I'm sorry."

"I can’t stand barriers between us," Bono said. "Don’t – don’t let this devour you. I know you could just hold this inside until your heart bursts, as long as no one suffers but yourself. You don't have to. You can lay some of it onto me, if you can. Reg? Are you ... in love?"

Half drunk, half heartbroken, and wholly exhausted, Edge stared at Bono, trapped. "If you knew — how hard I've been trying not to admit that to myself — to deny it —" And he simply lay back, knocking aside empty bottles, resting his frightened head on the concrete balcony floor and wishing he could just cease to exist. "Bono? Could you please shoot me?" he asked, softly.

A sad chuckle was his reward. "I'm a pacifist. Come on – the cold floor's no place for a rock star. Come on, love." Bono took both his hands and dragged him standing. "So what are you going to do about it? Nothing?"

Edge nodded miserably. "Take it to my grave if I can, and do no harm with it."

"You've been doing yourself harm with it," Bono said. "Please. If you can. Don't let this harm you. Would it ... you know I admire your ethics, and your discipline. But would it be so bad? To approach them, to at least find out whether they're interested, to indulge yourself?"

Edge just shook his head. He wanted to fling himself back into the haven of Bono's arms. "It's fruitless from beginning to end," he said. "The only constructive thing I can do is keep it a secret." He smiled crookedly. "B – I feel a bit better for the telling. I hated not telling you about it. Now why don't I just go cry myself to sleep or something."

"Just one more thing." Bono faced Edge and put his hands on his shoulders. "Listen, Reg. You are not a fool, nor a bad person. You, you are ... I can't believe you've never known it, how brilliant and brave you are, how kind and clever and ethical and beautiful you are. Sometimes the heart has its own wisdom. It's not always what we would choose, but ... we don't always get to choose. Sometimes the heart makes the choice. It sweeps us along with it sometimes, like it or not. Just remember that there's nothing evil in your heart. You're a good, decent, gorgeous man. Be easy on yourself with the blame and the flagellation and all that. Please. I'm begging you, Edge."

Tears glittered in the corners of Edge's eyes again as he shook his head, shrugged, and nodded. One side of his mouth insisted on smiling. _He called me beautiful._ Edge mustered enough self-possession to lift his head and square his shoulders. "Thank you," he said. "I'll cherish that." And he left. Before he said too much. _The heart has its own wisdom. He's so kind. Brilliant and brave, he called me._ Edge put Bono's last speech alongside the stone in his chest. The stone that gleamed with brilliant flecks.

Bono stood on the balcony for a long time that night, leaning on its half-wall and letting the night wind play in his hair, finishing the beers. _He's in love with somebody. Somebody else. But … he didn't say "she.” He never said "she.”_


	5. Castle walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge? Overthinking things? As if!

Over the next two weeks, Edge gave up on giving up masturbation. _It's not as though I could think of him any more whilst I'm doing it than I do lying there obsessing about refraining. Fuck it._ He made a concentrated effort to remember how much he liked Ali, the light in Bono's face when he was with her, how much he enjoyed being funny Uncle Edge. He became acutely aware of how very often Bono seemed to touch him, and began to view it as a kind of torture. Except on stage.

_It's obviously innocent, in front of all these people, he's just being Bono, no harm in an innocent kiss. God. But does he have to put his hand on the small of my back like that? Does he have to be so ... perfectly natural and vibrant, and insufferable and annoying, and compelling and dear?_

Adam cornered him once before soundcheck and asked if things were all right. "You seem so unhappy these days," he said. "You know, if something's on your mind, or something's the matter, you can talk to me about it." Larry cornered him once in a hotel elevator and did the same. "You haven't seemed yourself for weeks, except on stage," he said. "We miss you." Bono cornered him once in a limo and asked whether "the situation was unchanged." Edge had just nodded.

"How are you?" Bono asked.

"Heartsick," Edge replied reflexively. "No, I mean, actually, it's getting better. I'm getting used to it. It's getting easier." _It's not getting easier. I wish this had never happened. I can't stand to be around you, it's so frustrating, but I feed on it, I'm a fucking emotional remora._ Bono had taken his hand and held it firmly for the rest of the ride. Edge was torn between pretending it wasn't happening and pretending it was happening for the reasons he wished. He was afraid Bono would feel his pulse, not racing but flying.

Not waving but drowning.

Bono began to pester him to do more with him. "Until a few weeks ago, we were always exploring cities, going to museums and galleries, or at least seeing a few pubs here and there. You can't just mope in your room all the time. Come on. We'll pretend everything's normal."

Bono had never been resistible. Edge submitted to the exquisite torture of pretending things were normal. He even managed to be drolly funny on occasion. Larry and Adam relaxed a little. Edge mustered whatever coping mechanism seemed most useful at the time. One day he simply tried to stay out of Bono's physical reach. One day he tried to ignore physical contact between them, as he once had been able to, but each incident set his nerves singing and sent his heart racing. Bono resting his arm on the back of the bench the two shared at a cafe. Bono lighting two cigarettes and giving him one from his lips. Bono rummaging around in Edge's inside jacket pocket while Edge was wearing the jacket, borrowing his phone. That day he returned to his room and knelt on the floor crying. That was when he decided to ask Bono to stop touching him so much. The man's gentle hands on him were a torment. As castle walls eventually crumble under onslaughts of delicate ivy, so surely would his own defenses fall. One day Bono would be rubbing his neck or have his hand between his shoulderblades and he would just crack and blurt out something. Something irrevocable.


	6. A request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge tries to make a change, for his own sake.

In retrospect, toward the end of a night of drinking probably wasn't the most well-chosen time for Edge's foray into untouchableness.

They'd the four of them decided rather late to go out and so had made up for lost time, throwing back drinks with abandon as they laughed and talked. Edge spoke and smiled more than he'd been doing lately and felt things among them falling back toward their accustomed places, Larry telling funny, meandering stories, Adam not talking much but cracking them all up when he did, Bono alternating between fostering everyone else's time in the spotlight and stealing said spotlight for himself. Mostly the latter. Finally Adam and Larry went their own way – the two of them were going on an early radio show in the morning – and Bono and Edge drank more, laughed more, talked more.

Suddenly Edge registered that Bono's arm had been round the back of his chair for minutes upon minutes; he was leaning toward Bono, raptly hanging on as Bono leapt from topic to topic in patented Bono style. He sat up abruptly and pulled his chair back. Bono removed his arm, surprised.

"Look, B," Edge blurted. "I don't know quite how to say this. Lately it seems as though you’re touching me all the time, and I wonder if you could just try to touch me a bit less." _Oh, shit. That sounded very strange._

Bono regarded him oddly. "What? You mean the kissing? Nobody's going to misinterpret that, if that's your concern. We've been doing that for years."

"I don't mean onstage. I'm talking about continually, your hands in fact being on me at all times."

“I hardly think I paw you constantly."

"You're touching me right now and you're not even aware of it."

They both stared at Bono's right hand resting naturally on Edge's left knee.

_High_ on his left knee.

Bono snatched it back. They looked at each other. Bono looked a little afraid.

"I touch you constantly."

"Well, quite often, yes."

"Where?"

"My back, my arms, my hands, my knees, my shoulders," Edge said. "Or, on stage, at soundcheck, in the lift, at meals, in pubs, shopping, and sightseeing, if that's what you mean." Edge was starting to feel like an ass. "B, you've always been demonstrative. That's no bad thing. I'm just prickly here lately. In my current state."

"In your current state."

"Yeah."

"You don't want me pawing you in your current state," Bono said nastily.

Edge felt very much like an ass. "I don't mean it quite like that. You could just ... back off the merest bit."

Bono's eyes were brittle diamonds. "Fuck your current state," he snapped. "Fuck your bloody current fucking state." And he stalked away, his chair toppling in his wake.


	7. A hallway scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, welp, that didn't go so well.

He didn't know where he was going. Away. Away from that pretentious, martyred prick Edge, past billiard tables and into a narrow brick hallway. Loos, cigarette machine, pay phone, and the rear exit. _Pretentious fucking – how dare he – Christ –_ Bono was mentally sputtering. He felt as though Edge had slapped him.

"Come on, Bono, wait."

He whirled. They faced each other in the narrow space, Edge sorry and embarrassed, Bono humiliated and angry.

"Look, I –" Edge started. He looked miserable. "I don't – it's just –"

"Don't fucking bother," Bono snapped.

Edge flinched. "Look. Bono. That came out all wrong, in there –"

"In what way did you intend to phrase your request?" Bono asked venomously. "Prithee, Bono, keepest thine offensive hands off my person? _Fuck_ , Edge – "

Edge held up his hands as if to ward off Bono's words, or his temper. Bono, in a state of high pissoff, stepped close, grabbed two fistfuls of Edge's shirt, and shoved him against the wall. "You listen to me," he said, a centimeter from Edge's face. "I'm not going to say this again. I wish to god I were drunker. You're my ground wire, you're my touchstone. Touching you is all that keeps me sane, sometimes. If I kept my hands off you altogether I'd lose my fucking mind, right? If I touch you any _less_ I won't be able to stop myself some day. My god, I want to never stop touching you. Touching you like I do is just enough to blunt my fucking hunger to rip your fucking clothes off. Do I make myself perfectly fucking clear, Edge? So what's it going to be?"

There was a fraction of a second. Long enough to hear how loud his own voice had been. Long enough for a shaft of fear and desire and dismay to sink down his belly. _So now he knows._ Long enough to hear his own loud breathing, and Edge's as well. To see the whites of Edge's eyes showing all the way round.

Then Edge uncoiled like a weapon. Bono's shoulder hit the pay phone on the opposite wall and jangled the receiver off. His head knocked the wall, then Edge was kissing him, desperately, one hand shoved up into his hair behind his ear, the other holding his wrist against the wall. Their teeth clashed together. Cigarettes, and apprehension, and Edge’s faint patchouli. Edge’s firm lips, the texture of his tongue. A kiss to feed a starving man. Two starving men. Bono's free arm went around Edge's slim waist, tightly. At last. Edge’s body was against him, belly to belly. Then Edge rolled his pelvis forward, pressing frankly against Bono. Hard. Each man was moaning needily against the other’s mouth. Edge drove the kiss, hungry, longing –

Then Edge broke the embrace and was gone, out that back exit before Bono could find the strength to follow, gasping, "Wait!"

Edge was at the curb when Bono reached the door. He actually strode out into the street as Bono reached the curb. Unbelievably, there was a cab right there. Bono ran into the first lane, shouting "Edge!" in his weary overused voice, and then he was standing there alone. Breathing hard. Suddenly aware of a bump on the back of his head and a tingling in his shoulder where he'd hit the phone and a scrape on his knuckles. His lips felt raw from Edge's moustache, and his heart was beating like it does when you're going to faint or die. Or fly.

_He beat the hell out of me just kissing me! Imagine what he’s like in bed,_ Bono thought, and had to hold on to a parking meter for a moment, moaning involuntarily.


	8. Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which my inexperience as a writer in this fandom rings out loud and clear, and yet here we are.

Hastily Edge gave the cab driver the name of their hotel. Sudden embarrassment had overwhelmed him, and he couldn't believe what was happening. System overload. So he fled. Any kind of argument with Bono had always distressed him, even though it generally happened once per album. Voices would be raised, Bono would storm out, then he'd come back, contrite. This time it was Edge running away, with one thought tumbling through his head. _I kissed him. I kissed him. Jesus. I kissed him._

He fidgeted around in the back of the cab, unable to sit still. One hand kept going to his mouth. _Did I actually throw him against the wall? He kissed me back. I never kissed a man before. Him, but not like that. Oh, my god. There was nothing feminine about that. It felt so right. It was so right._

Once at the hotel he didn't know what to do with himself. The lounge was still open and Edge calmed himself enough to sit at the bar for a while. The bartender served him and let him alone.

Finally he began to see past the kiss and remember the words. _What the hell happened there? He said he wants to tear my clothes off. Holy shit. Could he have meant that? Or was he just upset? He didn't exactly fight me off. I never thought. I never thought he'd ever feel that way._

The thoughts churned around in his head, bumping into one another in interesting ways.

_I never thought he'd feel that way. But so what? I'm committed to Morleigh. I love her. I don't want to hurt her._

_She's not Bono. Nobody's Bono._

_That’s unfair. Oh, Mor’. I’m sorry._

_I want to be. I want to be. A faithful man._

_It wouldn't be as though I were just sleeping with some strange woman. God, I want him so badly._

_Nobody would even have to know …_

_He is married, you know. I've known Ali almost as long as I've known him. You don't just fuck around in the marriage of people you love._

_I’ll not be a destroyer._

_… At least I have the satisfaction of knowing he wants me too._

_Jesus. He wants me too._

_Fuck._

"Ma'am? May I buy one of those bottles? Call it room service. No, the bigger one." 

….

 Bono realized he was standing numbly in a parking space. _Sooner or later someone's going to want this space. Or police will come along and put a ticket on my sunglasses. Get it together, Bono._

His drink was still on the table. He looked at it as though it were an artifact from the thirteenth century. Had it all happened so quickly, then? _He asked me to keep my hands off him. I thought my heart was going to shatter. And then I told him. Told him I want him. I can't believe I finally said it. What's going to become of us?_

_It has to be me. I have to be the one he's been thinking of all this time. Or else he's actually lost his mind. Which is conceivable._

_Finally he found a way to shut me up. It was sheer desperation._

_It must_ _be me. That would explain everything. How he's been acting. He probably doesn't want to want me. No wonder he's freaked out. I have to make him talk about it. Right. Here I go, then. Oh, my god, is it actually going to happen, then? Singing to fifty thousand people is so much less frightening._ 

….

Edge wasn't actually much of a whiskey drinker, but that was what he'd ended up with. He took it back to his room and started a CD. _No soda in this fridge. No ice in here? Of course not._ He got a glass from the bathroom, poured some of the stuff into it, and took a swallow, followed by some face making and head shaking. Horrible. He went back to the sink, added some tap water, and tasted. Horrible. Back to the bottle. Add a bit more of that. Horrible. Frustrated, he flung the glass and its horrible contents into the sink, where it made a surprisingly satisfying clamor as it broke into pieces. "Take that, ya foul-tastin' bastard," he said. Went back to the bottle and drank directly from it this time. Still horrible. That was all right. He'd adapt. 

….

 Bono heard the music, faintly, as he got off the elevator. _This is why we try to get a block of rooms,_ he thought. _You can’t stop a band and their road crew listening to music at all hours._ As he walked down the hall toward it he recognized it. Edge always said The Final Cut was an underrated album. Bono could hear Roger Waters mourning, "What have we done ... Maggie, what have we done?" Not very cheerful stuff. He was outside the door now. Touching it with his fingertips. He thought he sensed Edge moving around inside. Pacing? Then the sudden sharp noise of breaking glass. Bono jumped. _What the hell was that?_ Edge wasn't exactly known for trashing hotel rooms. Bono heard him say something. Then the snap of his Zippo.

Bono knocked on the door, then looked down. Was that a shadow? _He must be looking through the peephole. Right there._

"Reg? Are you all right?"

Nothing.

"You broke something."

_Oh, brilliant. No wonder you’re the front man. Such acute observational skills._

"Don't be ridiculous. I know you're there. Please, let me in so we can talk." _I always get my way._

 ….

 Edge put his trembling hand on the door, tentatively. He almost fancied it was glowing. That's how he'd thought of Bono since the day he'd met him. He had a nimbus, a corona, as though the Aurora Borealis hung about him. Or had him for a source. Sometimes you could hardly look directly at him. He was a salamander, mythic creature that danced in and out of flame unscathed.

_I can't let him in. If I let him in, I won't let him out. Not until ..._ A spike of sheer sexuality ran through him, kindling small blazes along his nerves. He groaned aloud. "I'm not letting you in."

"I hope you're not ... ashamed, or sorry. I'm not. And you know we have to talk about this."

_Don’t you understand that I want to protect you?_ Edge took another drink of the horrible stuff. "I don't want to talk about it. I can't let you in. I'll see you at soundcheck."

Silence from the hallway.

"Are you going away?" Edge asked. He looked through the peephole. It was hard to tell, but Bono looked to be resting his forehead against the door. 

….

_Soundcheck? That's day after tomorrow._

Bono spoke with all his heart. It was melodramatic, but it was all he could think to say. "Love, rescue me, come forth and speak to me, raise me up and don't let me fall."

Nothing.

“I won't let _you_ fall, Reg,” he said, softly, into the crack above the door handle. “Come on. Just let me in." _I always get what I want._

Edge spoke just loudly enough to be heard through the door. "My grief lies onward and my joy behind."

Bono said, "You don't know if it's fear or desire."

Edge, very quietly: "My five wits nor my five senses can dissuade one foolish heart."

Bono: "You don't have to –"

Edge: "Please just go away."

Bono:  "I need you, Reg – I – like a desert needs rain –”

Edge slammed his palm flat against the door, hard. " _Jesus Christ Bono will you please just fucking go away!_ " he shouted, his voice cracking.

 ….

_That hurt. Better take another drink._ When he looked through the peephole again, Bono had retreated a pace. He just stood, looking at the door, with a hand in his hair. Looking as though Edge had struck him. Which he supposed he had done. Cruel to be kind. Edge saw him kiss the center of his palm, then lay the hand against the door. "I'm going," he said. "Okay. I’m sorry. I'm going." But he stood there another half minute before he went, slowly, down the hall.

"Farewell," Edge whispered. "Thou art too dear for my possessing." 


	9. Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge has a few drinks and a few thoughts and a few more drinks.

Edge stood at the big windows, watching the city lights, drinking. Listened to Whiskeytown. Paced the room like a caged animal, fighting his heart.

_Don’t go to him. If you go to him — remember — you’ll destroy everything. Ali. Morleigh. Remember._

_I have so much already. But I just want … one more thing, Lord. This one thing.  There must be a way. There must. A way to get what I want without hurting anyone. Without anybody knowing. Without Morleigh finding out._

_Without adding even more instability into my kids’ lives. Without damaging Ali and Bono’s marriage … without endangering the band … without being a dishonorable person …_

_Christ, what am I going to do._

_Just go. Go to him. Everything else will work out later. It’ll all come out right._

_No._

_There is no solution to this._

_No moral solution._

He drank. Listened to more Pink Floyd. Considered picking the broken glass out of the sink, then thought better of it, as a lifetime’s habit of being careful with his hands reasserted itself. _At least don’t cut yourself, for God’s sake._

He was trying, all the while, to change his heart. He was looking down days, weeks, months, the rest of his life, during which his heart would need to shrink. Below the surface, he was busily constructing heart armor. And preparing himself to don it.

_This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done._

He listened to Neil Young. Sang “Pocahontas.” Sat on the bed and drank. He began to wonder whether he’d drunk himself sober. _At my age, which is more debilitating, the liquor, or staying up all night?_

_… When did the sun come up?_

He thought about going for a walk, but envisioned himself walking straight to Bono’s room. Where his heart was. _Shit. Shit._ He thought about ordering up something to eat. Thought about a shower. Listened to Pearl Jam. Drank. Looked out the window at the midday sunshine. Thought, thought, thought of Bono’s hands on his body, on his skin. Bono’s mouth. He was achingly, uselessly hard. Bono’s sapphire eyes and compassion and wit. His trim hips and broad shoulders and proud head and sheer physical presence. His impulsiveness, his generosity. His determination to leave the world a better place. His wisdom and kindness, and his pure joy in living. How there just seemed to be so much more of Bono than there was of other people, as though he carried within him the vitality of a dozen men, each burning with a unique intelligence and charisma and will. The quality that allowed him to hold a half million people in his hand.

A half million and one.

_(How long are you going to keep this up? People do drop dead of alcohol poisoning, you know.)_

_I don’t think it’s going to come to that,_ he answered himself.

_(This isn’t like you.)_

_Shut the fuck up. My heart’s breaking._

_(You’re a wreck.)_

_Just one completely self-indulgent binge. Then off I go to soundcheck like a good lad._

_(Just don’t choke on your own vomit, Melodrama Boy.)_

_Shut. The fuck. Up._

He woke up lying on his back on the floor, stiff. The room’s little chair was overturned near his feet. The bottle lay near one outstretched hand, a Nick Drake CD (which technically belonged to Bono) by the other. He rose up onto his elbows. The room slid ominously, ten centimeters from right to left, then again, endlessly. The bedroom was dark; the cut of light from the bathroom was almost tangible.

_What time is it? What day? Ouch, my back. Okay. 11:00. Plainly not morning. Must be Thursday night._

Edge was in that excruciating territory between drunk and hung over. His collarbones ached. He crawled to the bathroom and heaved emptily for a while. _Aren’t we having fun? Get it out of your system. And I don’t mean the booze._ Then he got up and rinsed his mouth and face with water, carefully, above the broken glass. He put in Pink Moon and had a smoke. And another drink, shuddering.

Or two.

_I’ll never understand why he likes Nick Drake Those dead strings of his just drive me mad. They sound so dull. But it’s a pink moon. Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink, pink moon. The audacity of that lyric. That must be what he likes._

_His audacity. That’s why I love him._

He staggered to the bed, clumsily pulling his jeans off before collapsing, spinning quickly down into the deep, still sleep of the blitzed.

_Oh, god. How can grief like this ever diminish?_


	10. A breakfast scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Larry express some feels over breakfast.

Bono was nearly as surprised by Edge’s refusal to let him in as he had been by Edge’s kiss. After Bono had blurted out the desire he’d been concealing, Edge had seemed to reciprocate, so this adamancy seemed excessive. But he knew Edge’s reasons. _Morleigh. Ali. His damned ethics. Stubborn man. Beautiful, proud, stubborn, ethical man. I have to tell him everything now._

He half-expected Edge to appear the next day. But he wasn’t at lunch. He didn’t pop by Bono’s room for anything. Once Bono pressed his head against Edge’s door and heard faint music, that was all. Just the feeling that he was in there. _In there flagellating himself because of me. Because I was so clumsy._

At brunch Friday Larry asked him, “Where’s Edge gotten to, anyway?”

Bono shrugged. “I haven’t seen him.”

“I haven’t seen him since night before last,” Larry continued. “He’s been rather strange lately.”

“Yeah,” Bono said. “He seems to have something on his mind –” He became aware that Adam was staring thoughtfully at him. “What.”

“You realize he’s been more or less avoiding you for a month,” Adam said casually, stirring his tea without looking at it. Something transpired under the table that, to Bono, seemed suspiciously like Larry kicking Adam and getting kicked back much harder. Adam’s composed face didn’t change. He held Bono’s gaze. “Larry and I have been wondering why.”

Now Bono was discomfited. Why could he never maintain a Bono persona when he really needed it? Which was generally when he was trying to put something past Adam. “Well. I’m not entirely certain,” he said. Adam just gazed, patiently, brows slightly elevated. _He should have been a police interrogator,_ Bono thought. _He’s fully prepared to just sit there and gaze at me all day._ “I’m trying to get him to talk about it. We had something of a, I don’t want to say confrontation exactly, about it the other night, actually, and … well, I think he just stayed in his room all day yesterday.”

Momentary relief from The Gaze came his way as Adam glanced at Larry. “We’ve been quite lucky,” Adam said. “I keep waiting for it to fuck up the onstage dynamic, but actually he’s been almost unchanged onstage. It’s off that’s begun to worry me.” _Do something about it,_ Adam’s eyes said. _You have to fix this._

_I know. I’ll try._ “Me too. I’ll try to get to the bottom of it.” _Unchanged, except he hardly meets my eyes anymore. Unchanged except for the absence of joy. I am doing this to him._


	11. Morning after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can only stay drunk for so long, though.

Edge had neglected to close his curtains. Obnoxiously cheerful morning sunlight gushed happily into his room and across his bed.

_Ouch._

Holding a pillow over his eyes, Edge took inventory. There was still entirely too much poison sloshing around in his system. Luckily he usually didn’t get headaches with his hangovers. Unfortunately, he got nausea instead. _Ugh. Well, at least I didn’t choke on my own vomit._ His mouth was foul and parched. And his head was stuffed with some kind of cottony material. Not the comforting white stuff, either. Curds of thick, dirty grey cotton batting.

The stone in his chest was heavier today.

Denser.

_I didn’t go to him. I won._

_A hollow victory indeed. Congratulations._

_Right. So this is it. You’ve had your binge. This is where you pretend it never happened. Start the rest of your life. Here we go._

He was glad it was a gig day. No time for self-indulgence. He would be in professional mode all day, automatically, with one narrow focus.

He put on Life’s Rich Pageant, then selected a pile from the various vitamins and supplements that he traveled with and choked them down with handfuls of water, shuddering and gagging a little. He disliked water first thing in the morning under the best of circumstances. Then, while the pills rattled around inside him uneasily, a lengthy shower, during which he brushed his teeth – damn that broken glass in the sink. That hadn’t been like him. Then he threw on random clothes and went out. He was rather conscious of slinking past the hotel’s breakfast restaurant.

_This kind of day is why God invented sunglasses._

When he looked at his hands, they were perfectly steady, but in the long muscles of his thighs and biceps, he felt a trembling weakness nevertheless.

He slugged down something big from Starbuck’s, then forced himself to go have a sandwich, which made him feel better even though he hadn’t wanted it. Then he got another tall coffee and took it with him to the venue. He was very early, but he had things to do, if he could do them without getting in the crew’s way too much.

 


	12. Soundcheck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge plays, Bono thinks, Adam knows.

Bono could hear the guitar as he approached the stage through the backstage catacombs. _Hullo,_ _Cleveland_ _,_ he thought, as he always did. He came around the wall of mains and nearly bumped into Larry and Adam, who were standing rapt.

They all stood and listened for a moment. Then Bono grabbed Larry’s arm urgently. “They are recording this, right?”

Larry nodded. “We made sure of it,” he whispered back.

Bono took a couple of steps forward for a clearer view. An empty stage was an arena of highly organized chaos. Right now it was a work in progress, nearly finished. Four work stations under construction. Power cords and snakes running everywhere. Dust. Duct tape. Racks of gear. Lights. Monitors. Mic stands. Stomp boxes and pedal boards. Amps and speaker cabinets. The ubiquitous road cases. And Edge, leaning against a stool, playing slide on his butterscotch Tele, a cloud of smoke rising from him into the big empty space.

Bono closed his eyes. Edge was playing something new, slowly, tenderly. Inexpressibly sad. He was mourning. Mourning, but soaring. Mourning like the sky might keen for the earth, or the ocean lament for the forest. It was breathtaking.

Bono thought he’d never heard anything so beautiful. So heartbreaking.

Then Bono opened his eyes and looked. Allowed himself, for the first time in a long time, to consciously devour Edge with his eyes. He saw a slender, brilliant boy, a thoughtful, tenderhearted man. Everything about Edge had found its own fond place in Bono’s heart years ago. Those handsome eyes, and his nose and mouth. The familiar slope of his shoulders as he played the most sexual of musical instruments. The attentive tilt of his head as he worked his volume pedal. Not to mention the line of his thigh in his torn blue jeans. His trim economy of motion. How he thought things through. His integrity. His everlasting patience with Bono. His keen sense of justice and fairness. The fine intelligence that ran brightly through him. His talent. The glory he was invoking right now.

Adam had come forward and was studying Bono studying Edge.

_Oops._

“You know,” Adam said quietly, “in St. Louis, it’s going to be suites. He’ll try to switch with me or with Larry. We won’t let him. He’ll have to have it out with you, then.”

It was Bono’s turn to study Adam. He searched his face for insinuations. Adam just looked at him mildly. Then a knowing, upside-down smile manifested itself as Adam raised one eyebrow. “Don’t you agree?”

Bono tried to stare Adam down, as what Edge was doing leapt up a couple of octaves and became soaring blues with Edge’s trademark delay on it. Adam, as always, maddeningly refused to be stared down. So Bono just nodded. Then a mad grin spread across his face. There was no way to contain it. Adam grinned back. As the two turned back to the stage, Bono slipped his arm gratefully around the taller man’s waist. Adam slung his arm around Bono’s shoulders and squeezed back.

_He understands. Somehow, he understands._


	13. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A standoff occurs.

Afterward, when the other two had gone to put the finishing touches on their areas, Bono lingered with Edge. “That was beautiful,” he said, and reached out, meaning to lay his hand on Edge’s forearm. Then he remembered, and drew the hand back.

“Look, Edge –” he began again. “Are you all right?”

Up close, Edge looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot, he was unshaven, he looked weary and slightly ill, and his thin face was more than usually pale. Worse, though, he looked stricken, as though he’d been given bad news.

“I’m fine. Just a bit hung over,” Edge said. His eyes were dark and distant.

“Well, I just wanted to say.” Bono said uncertainly. “That I’m sorry for all the yelling and cursing the other night.”

“It’s all right,” Edge said, lighting another cigarette. “I, uh. I’m sorry for shoving you around.”

Standing still, Bono felt as though the two of them were circling each other. Cautiously. Linked by a force like gravity, which kept them simultaneously joined together and at a safe distance.

Time for a toned-down version of his slow, wicked grin. “I didn’t mind,” Bono said. “I didn’t mind at all. And I meant what I said.” _Your turn._

Something bright kindled in Edge’s eyes, then was veiled. He smiled a little. Sadly. “I meant what I did, too,” he said softly. “But it won’t happen again.”

_No. No. No. Under no circumstances will it be allowed to not happen again._  “I hope you don’t mean that.”

“That’s why I wouldn’t let you in. That’s why I took a day off. To consider everything. And I want to apologize to you. For how I’ve been acting, and specifically for the other night. Because I do mean this. It can’t happen again … it should never have happened. This has to stop. I’m sorry.” Edge stood resolute, Bono saw. His eyes were bleak and forlorn, but his shoulders were squared. Determinedly.

“Look, I’m sorry if this upsets you,” Bono said, taking a step forward. “But I don’t think we can just … pretend it’s not happening and make it go away. Something _is_ happening.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Edge took a step back.

“You want it to be.” Step forward.

“You’re mistaken.” Step back.

“You’re lying.” Step forward.

“Just stop it,” Edge said. “I am not playing some little verbal game with you, do you understand? Whatever it is – _was_ – it’s done.”

“It’s not. And you know it. It’s unfinished business.”

“Consider it finished. It should never have started.”

“How can you just –”

“ _This has to stop._ ” Edge hadn’t raised his voice, but he spoke with an intensity that made Larry glance up from the cymbal stand he was adjusting. “Bono, don’t ask of me what – what’s too much for me to give. _Don’t_.”

They stared at one another. A resolution formed in each locked gaze.

_It has to stop. It’s over. Not happening._

_Just wait. In_ _St. Louis_ _I will claim you._


	14. Thin ice, and homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, did you guys ever think about, you know, actually talking about it or anything? Also hi my name is Occula and I am melodramatic.

Over the next two weeks Edge redoubled his efforts to be normal. Ignoring, suppressing, denying his desire for Bono had been a difficult ordeal when he’d thought that desire would remain a secret. Now the pain was redoubled. Edge simply was not made for sustained deception, and to act and to pretend in opposition to the need that filled him was excruciating. He tried to neither avoid Bono nor seek him out more than was his custom, and he fought his inclination to seclude himself in his own room.

_It was difficult enough to resist him – difficult enough to think of ‘never’ and ‘forever’ – when I thought he’d never know._ But it had to be done. It was best for Bono, best for Morleigh, best for Ali, best for everyone. _Everyone,_ he told himself. _Everyone._

_I have put it behind me. All is as it was._

_I hate being a liar._

Over those next two weeks Bono looked and looked again for some acknowledgement from Edge that something was transpiring between them. He saw no such recognition. Edge spoke and laughed; he moved, ate, drank; but he was a simulacrum. Bono thought that nobody who didn’t know him well would see it, but Bono saw. Edge did it well; he was almost perfect; but the mask of polite interest that he turned toward Bono was as painful as a physical blow would have been.

It was almost as though Edge had died. Died, and this stranger inhabited his body.

Only onstage – only playing – only then was Edge fully alive, fully himself. He met Bono’s gaze without hesitation, his eyes alight with wild, reckless joy. In the midst of the chaos and disorder and madness of performing, in the midst of the maelstrom, where Bono could so easily lose himself, lose his self, Edge was his stability. He held, as ever, the strength and heart of their music serenely, confidently, in his hand.

Then it was over, and Bono was only a man again, and Edge resumed his mask, and Bono’s heart foundered. He was struggling, uncharacteristically, to find the right time to initiate the conversation they had to have. He knew he must speak. And soon.

He found himself wandering into Edge’s St. Louis bedroom when Edge was out, just to look around. Just to be in his space. He missed Edge terribly. There was a scattering of books and CDs on the bed, and Edge’s old four-track. A bottle of booze on the dresser. A pile of shoes. Bono touched these things lightly. He was always surprised at the quantity of stuff Edge seemed to travel with. He accumulated books everywhere and left them for hotel staff or shipped them home when necessary. He could be relied on for various items that no normal musician would pack, like dental floss, nail clippers, and herbal supplements. Bono himself brought surprisingly little: a rather alarming quantity of clothing, a few books and CDs, pictures of his family, and what Edge called his Diva Kit, which held hair stuff, jewelry, makeup, and whatever rock star accessories he threw in or picked up later.

_God, I miss him._

Being Bono, he was sprawled on the bed engrossed in _The Hotel New Hampshire_ an hour later when Edge came into the suite and straight into the bedroom. He stopped just inside the doorway as Bono looked up, surprised and a little guilty.

_Not so long ago he would’ve sat here beside me and we would have taken turns reading to one another,_ Bono thought dismally. _Now we both wonder what the hell I’m doing invading his privacy like this._

“I was just looking for something to read, I guess,” he blurted. Edge stood just inside the door, looking lost. Looking like he didn’t know whether to stay or flee. Bono felt like a trespasser.

“I’m sorry,” he said, getting up. “Hey, I thought you disliked Nick Drake.” He held up one of the CDs from the bed. “I was wondering where this was.”

Edge’s eyes avoided Bono’s. They slid to the bottle on the dresser, and past. He shrugged. “I still don’t like the sound of the guitar, with those dead strings. But the lyrics have been growing on me. I didn’t mean to keep it so long … please, you should go.”

“What?” He had added that last so seamlessly that Bono thought for a moment that he’d misunderstood. He took a step forward, and Edge took a step aside, out of the doorway, shaking his head a little. _He didn’t mean to say that,_ Bono thought.

“You can borrow the John Irving. You can have your Pink Moon back.”

“I didn’t really come in here for the CD, or for a book.” Bono took another cautious step. Not toward the door exactly. There was thin ice between them.

“Why, then.”

“I came … just to be in here, and kind of look at your things. Because I miss you.”

Edge shook his head again. He still didn’t quite meet Bono’s eyes. He took another half-step sideways, away from the door. Leaving a wide path. Clearly, Bono was supposed to leave.

He didn’t. “Look, Reg,” he said. “Look, I’ve had something on my mind” – _obviously_ – “and I need to tell you about it. Will you listen?”

Edge just looked apprehensive.

“A month or two ago you told me about a realization you’d had,” Bono plunged. “But there’s something I need to tell you, too. Please.”

Finally Edge met his eyes, beseechingly. His mask was slipping. “Bono, you know I don’t –”

“Please, wait.” Bono looked beseechingly back. “This, well, it’s information you need. Have needed. That I _need_ to say to you. About five years ago –”

Edge couldn’t suppress the surprised noise he made.

“…maybe six, I had the kind of realization that you told me about more recently. I finally realized, finally admitted to myself, that I’d had a growing, passionate interest in someone outside my marriage. You.”

“Oh, god,” Edge said involuntarily. _Don’t tell me this._ He wanted to turn away, or run away. But he managed to look at Bono’s face, and the plain openness there held him. The sincerity. _He’s not … not being anything. He just needs to tell me. He listened to me -- so just listen to him._ He managed to nod. _God only knows what he’s reading on my face right now._

_Well, he hasn’t yet run from the room,_ Bono thought. _That’s something._ He sat back down. “So when I told Ali about it –”

“You what!”

“So I told Ali,” Bono continued doggedly. “It’s not the kind of thing I could keep from her. I told her that I’d apparently been developing feelings for you for a long time. That if I were honest with myself, I’d probably had these feelings for you for years. I didn’t know what to call it exactly, I told her I didn’t know whether I was falling in love with you, or … I just knew, as much as I’ve cared for you as long as I remember, it was more than just something physical. I mean,” Bono couldn’t help smiling. “It _had_ become something physical, but I’ve loved you so well for so long, it was clearly more than that besides. But it didn’t change my love for Ali in the slightest, and I made sure she knew that, too, as best I could in my confused state.”

Edge had no idea what to say, had he in fact been able to speak. Bono’s pure simplicity was a precious thing. Edge tried to remain impassive and failed. Bono’s expression … it was so wistful, so exalted. Where was he finding the courage to say such things?

“So Ali and I talked about this for a long time. And she told me, finally, that she knew she’d never lose me, and that she loved you, and that you would always be more than a friend and brother to us both, whatever happened. And she told me I’d best not hurt you and I’d best not harm your marriage or relationship if you had one. That I’d better just be damned careful. But she told me … she said that if it ever did happen … well, she said, in essence, that she knew how close you and I were and that she’d never been threatened by it before, so she wasn’t going to start feeling threatened now. That she could see how deeply I felt … felt my attachments to the both of you. She. She gave me permission.”

“Oh, dear lord.” Edge was flabbergasted.

“Well, obviously, I never told you,” Bono said. “Mostly because I was afraid. What we’ve always had, it’s so necessary to me, and it’s always been so right, I was afraid of messing it up. You’d not understand, or not like the idea, it would hurt the band … I was afraid of destroying my hopes and making a fool of myself.”

Edge swallowed. “I’ve had a bit of that myself these past weeks.”

“So I thought — after all that’s happened recently — I began to believe you felt the same way. And I wanted to tell you if your obstacle is your concern for my marriage, or that you don’t think I’d be interested … To have kept this to myself all this time, Reg … I know this has been difficult for you too, but when I finally realized … in the hallway … and then you just refused …” Bono’s stream of speech died away as he realized how long it had been since Edge had actually said anything of substance.

Edge felt poised on the brink of something. Fall one way and it’s cool water; the other way, hard cement. But he certainly was going to fall. “I,” he began. “I. Never. Thought.” _Maybe I’m having a stroke. I can’t seem to move my mouth. Can’t think._

He stared helplessly at Bono, saw a hint of amusement in Bono’s eyes at his utter lack of poise. Edge gathered himself enough to say, “Perhaps it’s all right with Ali. Which I can hardly believe. But she’s not the only woman in the equation. Bono, I’m old enough … I should be man enough … to do the right. To be faithful.” _Don’t listen to me. Please._ Every word was a horrible wrench of his stomach, his heart. He could hardly speak.

The room was very quiet for a few moments. They didn’t look at one another as each struggled with his burden.

“My god, Edge,” Bono finally said very softly, looking at his hands, his knees. “I never thought you’d want to and refuse. I thought you would or you wouldn’t.” _Fuck, now you’ve done it. Fuck. Fuck._ He had to get up and pace about the room. “I just don’t see how we can go on as we have been. This is the thing I never wanted to happen. It’s changed. You’re walking around like a fucking automaton, I don’t know what to do ... Edge, losing you, losing what we’ve always been, that’s what I can’t do, that’s what I can’t face …” Bono’s voice broke. Edge saw unshed tears shining in his eyes. “We can’t go back. And we can’t keep on like this. We _have_ to – we have to do something – to save us –” His pacing had brought him close to Edge, and he stopped and looked at him, forced him to look into his eyes. “Reg, for God’s sake, don’t you miss me? Reg, it’s been like having my arms cut off, having you act like this, so distant –”

As Bono watched Edge’s white face he realized he was witnessing a terrible ordeal. A stream of feeling struggled across Edge’s face, and his lips moved a little. Guilt. Hope. Misery. Terror. Finally he managed to speak.

“B, I … in the past weeks, I … I’ve realized … that I have these feelings for you, and then put them aside. Then realized them again, and smothered them. Then, when you said … when I began to believe that you … I drowned them. Deliberately. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. The most brutal thing. A kind of murder. And I really think. That if I resurrect my heart one more time, and then have to roll the stone back over it yet again. It might be more than I can actually bear. I just … don’t … please, just let me …” He stopped and took a ragged breath. “Bono, I’m at the end. I simply can’t. Can’t let myself … can’t go through it again.” _Jesus, I do miss you, I do want you, I’m such a fucking coward._ Edge could no longer meet Bono’s eyes.

_Dear God,_ thought Bono, appalled. _What he’s done to himself._ Edge was backed against the wall. His mouth was pulled into a desperate, painful twist. He let Bono hold his head. Bono pressed his forehead to Edge’s. The tips of their noses met. He spoke near Edge’s mouth. “I promise you,” Bono said. “There will be no more brutality. No more. I will not hurt you any more. This will be all right. We will make it all right. Let me. Let me make it all right.”

Edge’s knees were giving way. He slipped down the wall to the floor. Bono went with him. Edge’s hands went to Bono’s head. His fingers twined in Bono’s hair. He smelled Bono’s comforting scent. Edge heard a high keening from the back of his own throat. He felt as though every emotion he’d ever experienced was surging erratically through his nervous system. He was completely overloaded. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t untwist his mouth or stop his body’s shaking. He was choking out harsh, undignified sounds. _This is what it feels like. To break down._ Then he felt Bono enfold him into a protective embrace. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bono was whispering. “I’ll make it all right. I’m so sorry for how I’ve hurt you, love. I’m so sorry.”

Edge shook his head. _I’m sorry, Morleigh, love. I surrender. ... If I am guilty I will pay._ Something opened in his chest and he was bawling, clutching Bono for dear life, saying “No you didn’t it’s all right I did it to myself don’t be sorry you didn’t” in a broken, uneven wail.

They clung to each other until Edge cycled down from sobbing to weeping to quietude. Edge finally became aware of his surroundings again. Bono’s shirt was wet under his face. Bono was still cradling him. The back of Edge’s neck was wet. Bono’s tears. Bono was rubbing his head, gently. Kissing him on the neck. Rubbing the knots just inside his shoulderblades. Petting and soothing him. Edge wiped his face without lifting his head from Bono’s chest. It was like witnessing a miracle cure after a long, hopeless watch by the deathbed of a loved one. After everything, after all the years, and all the weeks and days, he’d come here. Come home.


	15. Boundary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, finally!

Edge turned so that he was facing Bono. They wiped one another’s wet cheeks with their fingers. Their hands wanted to stay on one another’s faces, Edge’s thumb tracing Bono’s jaw and cheekbones and Bono stroking Edge’s brow. Then Bono closed the small space remaining between them. How odd it was, how novel, how right. When their tongues met, slowly, softly, Bono shivered, Edge moaned.

They kissed for a very long time. They kissed gently, teasingly, dryly, hard. They kissed until Edge’s shirt had been unbuttoned and thrown open, until Bono’s had been yanked over his head and tossed aside, until chins had been nibbled and inner wrists licked, until Edge had scratches on his back and Bono’s neck showed hectic bite marks. Until they were flushed and panting. They kissed until Edge was lying beneath Bono, until Bono was moaning with each exhale and Edge was making a hungry growling noise in his throat, until Edge was grinding urgently against Bono’s hard thigh.

“Please, Reg. Oh. That –”

“God, you’re just so beautiful – your chest –”

“You’ve seen my chest thousands of times.”

“No, this is the first time.”

“I can count your ribs.”

“I was pining.”

“Not anymore.”

“No,” Edge said. “I’m all right now.”

“I think I’ve wanted this my whole life.”

“Oh, God, Bono. My Bono.”

“Mister The Edge.”

“I love you.”

“Oh. Oh. Yes. I love you too.”

“I want to kiss you like this forever. Forever.”

“But you don’t want to exhaust my mouth.”

“Oh Jesus Bono.”

Bono hesitated, hands on Edge’s hips. He looked up into Edge’s eyes. _This is it. The boundary. Are you sure? Because I’m going to cross this line, and there will be no going back._

_I know. Cross it. I’m sure._

Bono pulled the trousers out of the way and ran his hands over Edge’s lower belly, his hips and thighs, savoring the sounds Edge was making. Then he lowered his head and took him in. _Oh, my god, this is — this is — I’m doing this. I hope it’s good._

Edge’s vocalizations stuttered up an octave as he flailed for something to grip and found Bono’s shirt, which he bunched in his fist. _Incredible. Incredible. I can’t believe this is happening._ The pleasure was too much to be contained; Edge tossed his head from side to side, moved his arms, his feet. His body tensed by notches as Bono’s tongue and lips moved over him, so wet; he arched like a bow, thighs, arms, belly taut, then more. And then more. On and on. When he broke into a sudden sweat, he put his hands on Bono’s head to stop him and managed to gasp, “I’m — almost — you don’t have to —" Bono growled a fierce negative and engulfed him. Edge was gone. His toes pointed, his hips moved eagerly of their own accord. He flung his arms out and gave himself up to the moment, _dove_ into the moment, not bothering to stifle his cries, and just let Bono take him, out of his mind, and heard himself say huskily “Show me, Bono – change me –” then he was just crying out “yes yes yes” as he went.

Bono gulped once, twice, overwhelmed with love, pride, relief, possessiveness, all encased in bright lust and need. Just the sound of Edge’s voice, how he’d never heard it before, had almost put him over the brink. He looked Edge over, greedily. He was panting and moaning, quivering with aftershocks, a flush spread across his chest and the faint gleam of sweat on his body and face. The cords of his neck stood out and his eyes shone dark and golden. Bono felt he’d been privileged to witness some great secret, a holy ceremony. He said, “God, I just want to do everything to you, eat you, drink you, breathe you, deserve you, become you –”

There would be time for exploration of other boundaries, time for the luxuries of tenderness and leisure, but not now; now he simply tore his jeans open and slid and thrust against Edge’s belly, slick and sweaty, wanting nothing more than to accompany Edge, to be _with_ him, urgently, there, now, in that altered state, that other consciousness, that precious country. Then Edge was clutching him, throwing a leg over Bono’s, slipping a hand between their bodies, grasping him, stroking _oh jesus_ roughly and speaking into his ear, low and hoarse, commanding him. “My god Bono you’re so fucking sexy, come with me, come _for_ me, oh, Bono, come on, do it, yes, _now_ ,” and he was, he was there, saying “Edge, Edge, Edge,” over and over again and then biting Edge’s collarbone and wailing wordlessly against his skin in complete abandon.

Bono was still trembling when he drew back to look at Edge. Edge was grinning at him, shy, embarrassed, and proud. Bono was flushed and triumphant, serious and giddy. “Are we – are we – are you? I want to ask you something, but I don’t know what,” he said. “How are you? Are you all right?”

Edge smoothed Bono’s hair back with his clean hand. He nodded. “I’m back,” he said. “I’m all right. I’m sorry I left you; I never wanted to.”

“Things are changing,” Bono said.

“Good.”

Bono collapsed against him again, holding him close. Edge was hot and wet, and Bono’s weight was stifling. Edge cherished the sweet discomfort. He couldn’t stop smiling. Had he been trying, all this time, to force his heart to diminish? It was growing, stretching, soaring, flowing over.

As they held one another the stone in Edge’s chest was disintegrating. It crumbled into gravel, sandstone, sand, ran through his fingers, and was gone.


End file.
